Amnesia
by Pandemxn
Summary: One day Clint Barton wakes up in a hospital bed, concussed and with broken ribs, not knowing who he is. The only thing that he can remember is that Natasha Romanoff is in grave danger and he is the only one who can save her. With the help of Wanda he fights to regain his memories in a race against time. Whump & Memory Loss.
1. Chapter 1

His head hurt like hell. That was the first thing that he recognized when he regained consciousness. The pain in his head throbbed like the epicenter of an earthquake, sending quivers of pain to his nerves. It took a while for him to notice that his head wasn't the only body part that hurt. He recognized a stinging pain every time he took a breath and he wheezed slightly.

His eyelids were bricks of cements and as he finally heaved them open he had to snap them shut immediately. A bright white light was erupting in his vision, sending a new wave of pain through his head. Even though his eyes were closed he could feel himself on the verge of drowning in nausea.

It was only then that he noticed that he didn't know what his head hurt. His senses were overwhelmed and he decided to give himself a moment to sort his thoughts. He was lying on his back, his head cradled in a stiff cushion. An equally stiff blanket covered him up until the waist. The mattress under him seemed rather comfortable.

His ears started to filter sound. He flinched as the steady sound of a heart monitor brought light into the shadows that were his clouded mind. Was he at hospital? If so, why?

Steps. A quick, urgent sound. Clicking. Heels, he guessed. The sound seemed to get closer. Suddenly, silence. Another click. A door opened. A voice spoke. No, it was two voices.

"We fixed his ribs, his lungs won't be damaged permanently. He should be able to walk and breathe properly in, let's say… Two days. The concussion also won't affect him for longer than a day, although I am not so sure about his memories. I say you ask him about that. You're listed in his contacts so that should be no problem, yes?" The voice was firm yet kind.

"I'll ask him. When will I be able to talk to him?" The voice was female. He could detect an accent, his best guess was Eastern European.

"Soon. It looks like he'll wake up any moment. About the cuts on his neck and chest… I'm afraid that they'll stay behind as scars. They might fade after a couple of years but in case he doesn't know where they came from I suggest you tell him. Here in my reports I have a notice about him not being too open to doctors… Anyways. Should I leave you two alone?"

"Yes, please. Should I call you when he wakes up?"

"Oh, no, no, everything should be alright. Unless there is an issue that you cannot handle, of course. Then please notify me. Just press the button on the side of his bed. It will alert either me or someone who can help you equally well."

"I'll call if there is a problem."

He could hear a pair of feet leaving the room as the door clicked again. For a moment he contemplated opening his eyes to take a look at his visitor but he decided that playing dead was a safe option for now.

The sound of heels clicking on the floor appeared again and it came closer. It stopped just to his left and he could hear delicate breathing. He did not know how to react. Who was the woman? Why was she visiting him? Why was he here? He knew that the answer to all of his questions would come to him if he just opened his eyes yet he decided to leave them shut.

"Clint?" It was a question. The woman was speaking carefully with sympathy in her voice. Something in her voice ringed a bell. It was the way she said the name.

Was she addressing him?

"Clint… Can you hear me?"

Was that his name?

He suddenly felt a warm touch on his hand. It was so sudden yet so familiar that he couldn't resist the urge to open his eyes. He ripped them apart and immediately regretted it. The light was still blinding and the pain in his head pulsed again. A pained groan escaped his lips and he turned his head away to face something other than the bright light in the ceiling.

And that's when he saw her.

It took him a while to make out her face as his eyes were still adjusting to seeing again. Her frame was delicate yet she emitted a strong aura that sent a shiver across his spine. He could see a hint of fear in her eyes, but there was something else… Relief? Long, dark blonde hair fell down her shoulders. Even though he couldn't find a name to match her face she seemed oddly familiar. It bugged him that everything about her screamed memory but he couldn't connect any ties to her.

She looked confused, apparently noticing the same emotion showing in his face.

"Clint?"

He opened his mouth to speak and yet no words came out. He tried again, this time being able to croak out a couple of words. It surprised him that his voice was so low.

"Why… Why do you keep calling me that?"

The woman blinked and stepped away. He could see shock in her face as she looked him right in the eye. Apparently she did know him.

"I'm sorry… Did I say something rude?" he asked, worried about might having offended her.

"No," she said after some hesitation. "I'm just… Do you know your name?"

He blinked. He was so busy with the pain in his head and with the presence of the woman that he did not realize that he actually had no idea of what his name was. Neither did he recall a home address, a city, any memories of significance.

"I- I thought I," he stammered, not finding the appropriate words to string together. He started to panic and he could hear the heart monitor beeping faster. He didn't know who he was. He did not know the simplest thing about him; a name. Who was he?

She took another step towards him, carefully, as if she were approaching a wounded animal. Maybe he was just that, he figured. "It's okay," she said. "The doctor said that something like this might happen. Temporary amnesia or something. You had a bad concussion."

"A concussion? How? What happened to me? Did I have a car accident?"

She nervously bit her lip. "No. And you have no idea who you are?"

"No," he said, somehow feeling guilty because he genuinely had no idea who he was. It felt weird to be someone who was able to feel, speak and think yet not being able to recall anything about a life he was supposed to have. He felt like he was robbed of something very precious.

There was a pause.

"Well, now that I know my name… Nice to meet myself. And what's your name?" he asked, trying lighten the mood.

"Wanda," she said, carefully watching him while she did. He knew that he hoped to see a trace of recognition in his face yet he himself was disappointed that the only emotion that surfaced was more confusion.

"Wanda," he repeated, enjoying the sound of the name. "A very nice name. Where are you from?"

She waved it off. Apparently she did not want to speak about that.

"So…" he started again, feeling himself becoming impatient. "What happened to me?"

"You fell."

"I fell?"

"…Yes."

"I got a concussion and presumable broken ribs because I fell? What in the world did I fall from?" he asked, not sure if he was able to believe her. He did not know that woman, even though she appeared to know him. What if she was just messing with him? She wasn't a doctor. This woman, this… Wanda. She could have been anyone. He couldn't come up for a reason for why she would tell him lies but as he did not have hard facts he wasn't sure of anything right now.

She took a deep breath and looked away. "You fell off a plane."

Silence.

"Excuse me? I fell off a plane?" he asked in disbelief. The possibility that this woman was a liar became more and more reasonable to him.

"You didn't exactly fall. You were pushed off a plane," she corrected herself, still avoiding eye contact.

That was too much. He tried to sit up, fighting against the wave of nausea that was overcoming him again. First she was telling him that she knew what happened to him, and then she was reluctant with sharing the information with him. Now she was telling him that someone threw him off a _plane_?

"Clint," she started, trying to hold him back. "You have to stay in bed, your head-"

"Leave," he cut her off. She seemed perplexed at that command, staring at him in confusion.

"Clint, please, you know me-"

"I asked you to leave. Please."

"Clint-"

"Stop calling me that!" he shouted, immediately regretting it. His chest stung and he had to fall back into the cushion. He wheezed and held his ribs, remembering something about the doctor saying that his lungs were damaged.

Wanda looked at him in pity, still refusing to do as he asked her. Quietly she leaned over and helped him settle down on the cushion so that he was lying comfortably without putting too much pressure on his ribs. He fingertips brushed his shoulders, which sent another chill across his spine. The touch felt so familiar and it tore him apart on the inside not knowing why it felt like that.

"Clint, let me show you something, alright?" she said, looking for something in her pocket. He felt too exhausted to protest so he just lay there, watching her. Eventually she found what she was looking for and she fished a smartphone out of her pocket. She unlocked the phone with a six-digit passcode and spent another few seconds looking for something on the screen.

"There," she said as she stopped scrolling. She turned the screen towards him so that he could see the image that she wanted to show him. "Look at it and try to believe me."

He squinted his eyes and examined the picture. It showed a small group of people at a rectangular table, eating dinner together, all smiling into the camera. At first he could see Wanda on the very left of the picture, laughing wholeheartedly, carrying a glass containing a red liquid in her hand. Wine, he presumed. On the other end of the table he made out a muscular, blond man who also smiled into the camera. He, unlike the others who were drinking wine and eating something that looked like fancy pasta was drinking water and eating salad. Sitting together, shoulders aligned next to each other sat two people, a man and a woman. He recognized the man to be himself. He, apparently being a person called Clint, looked extremely happy as if he were surrounded by his best friends. His past self held up a glass as if making a toast to the company. Clint gasped as his gaze fell on the woman sitting next to him. She was a striking beauty. Her hair was full and red and she was wearing a brilliant white dress with red highlights that accentuated her hair. The woman seemed to be very close to Clint. One hand was placed on his other shoulder and the way she was leaning towards him was suggesting that they were more than just acquaintances.

Like when he saw Wanda for the first time he felt like he knew that woman, but this time that feeling was stronger. Something nagged him in the back of his brain as if a memory was playing tug of war with his nausea. Clint blinked repeatedly and leaned back again to relax his neck.

"The red-haired woman," he started," who is she?"

"Oh, her?" Wanda said, looking at the picture. "That's Natasha. Natasha Romanoff."

"Natasha…" Clint repeated slowly. Like Wanda's name he liked the sound of it, but this time he felt like experiencing colorful music for the first time. "Natasha…"

That was when it hit him. There was a reason that something in the back of his brain was unsettling, something was wrong. It was the only thing that he seemed to recall of his past life and he was sure of it. His expression melted away as his head whipped around to face Wanda.

"Danger," he said, gasping. His head started to throb again.

"Danger?" Wanda asked, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"That woman," Clint gasped, pointing at the phone. "Natasha."

"Yes, what about her?"

"She's in great danger."


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys! Here's chapter 2. I couldn't wait to write more, however I may have finished this when I was sleep deprived so there may be a chance of a few simple wording mistakes or so. My trusty spellcheck should have eliminated the worst. (Don't worry, I'll go over the text in detail as soon as I can and then fix the imposters) Feel free to review and tell me if you like the story so far!

They were coming back.

She heard the muffled sound of tires halting on dirt. Engines. Then they stopped. There was shouting, a lot of it. She couldn't make out any words, they were too far away. Nevertheless she could make out one voice in particular, being louder than the rest. That voice seemed to be giving orders, quick, abrupt sentences. She shivered. It was cold in the room they locked her in.

Natasha Romanoff closed her eyes and took a deep breath, leaning back against the cold stone wall. Then she opened them again. Whenever she opened them she saw the same dull room. It was about the size of a bathroom. The floor was carpeted but it was a dirty, untended kind. No one seemed to vacuum here. The room was windowless and the only entrance was a solid wooden door. She had tried to kick the door in but the only result was a throbbing foot. At the bottom of the door was a cat flap. She doubted that they owners of this house had a cat but in that way they supplied her with food and water. They had kept her alive. For now.

The spy hated being helpless and it happened more often than she liked to admit. Again, she closed her eyes, the events of the past days reaching back to her.

It was exactly a week ago when she was driving her motorcycle on a nearly deserted highway. It was around noon on a weekday, Tuesday to be exact, and she was simply enjoying the wind on her face. She drove without a helmet, which was foolish, but she was so certain of her being able to drive without one that she rarely took one with her. After a while, however, her motorcycle started to make unnatural sounds up until where it slowed down and eventually stopped. She'd let out a string of curses in both English and Russian as she stepped off the bike and pulled it off the road to check what was wrong. In the distance she heard another engine approaching which she chose to ignore. It was a highway after all.

Natasha was about to check the wheels when she saw the black unmarked car approach her in the corner of her eye. She froze, alerted by the lack of details. What unsettled her even more was the fact that the car was slowing down. The redhead was sure that whoever drove the car was not slowing down to pick up a helpless motorcycle driver.

Now the car stopped, about a hundred feet from her. She ducked behind the motorcycle, acting as if she were focused on the reparation, but she still subtly watched the car. The driver's door opened and a man wearing a black suit and a buzz cut emerged, his eyes fixed on the motorcycle. Behind him the passenger door opened and an equally dressed man stepped out of the car. The way the two were keeping their hands close to their pockets unnerved her.

Another door opened and another man came into her view. He also was wearing a suit but it was tan, probably Italian. He had curly black hair and a face like an eagle. A gasp escaped her lips. She recognized that man in an instant. His name was Dario Pizarro, a Peruvian businessman. He had made his money by performing human trafficking next to his usual business and he occasionally used his influence to get rid of competition by directing his men to kill them. Here and there Pizarro had pulled the trigger himself. It had been years since she last saw him, which was one of her first missions as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. It took her and Clint Barton days to locate him and track him down. The mission ended with his bullet in her leg and her's in his shoulder when they handed him over to the government. Natasha recalled reading that a couple of months ago his prison cell was found empty with no trace of him.

She had bit her lip, mentally going through the options she had. The men were clearly armed and they outnumbered her. She herself was carrying a small handgun but there was no way that'd she'd be able to hit them all without them hitting her too. Her bike offered her only a little cover but it sure wasn't bulletproof. If she'd run she would end up as Swiss cheese- with many holes in her back. Hiding was no option either. She was certain that they knew it was she behind the bike. Why else would they all exit the car? Natasha considered shooting Pizarro just to get rid of him but she imagined that as soon as she popped up behind the bike with a gun in her end she would end up dead.

That only left her with one option. She took out her phone, quickly unlocked it and looked for a contact.

"Miss Romanoff," someone shouted. "Get out from behind the bike. We are armed."

Her breathing became quicker and she could hear the blood rushing through her head. Natasha found the contact and did her best to type quickly.

 _Clint. Trace my phone. Pizarro has me cornered. Black unmarked car. Help._

"Miss Romanoff! I will count until three. Then I will shoot," the same voice shouted. It wasn't Pizarro's, she knew that.

Natasha took a deep breath and looked behind her. A slope led downhill and tall grass covered the ground.

"One."

She weighed the phone in her hand and drew back her arm.

"Two."

Natasha threw the phone as far as she could downhill, hearing a faint thud as it landed somewhere in the grass.

"Thr-"

"Okay!" she shouted.

Silence.

Slowly she got up, hand above her head, showing that she had no intention to shoot at Pizarro or his men. Both of them had their guns fixed at her head while Pizarro was standing next to them, a smug grin painted across his face.

"Step out from behind the bike," the man to Pizarro's right barked. He looked like a bulldog.

Natasha did as she was told and fully shuffled into their view, hands still above her head. The other man stomped towards her, putting the gun into its holster. Bulldog stepped closer as well as if to demonstrate that there still was a gun that could kill her as much as two guns could. Suit number two took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and fixed one of the loops on her wrist. Then he pulled both arms behind her back and fixed the other loop on her other wrist. Natasha kept a straight face, not allowing Pizarro to see her annoyance.

"Move," the other man scoffed, his voice deep and menacing. He pushed her slightly so she stumbled ahead towards the car. Pizarro smiled and opened his arms as if he was welcoming an old friend.

"Miss Romanoff, how great to see you," he purred his eyes scanning her from head to foot.

"Pizarro," she replied coldly. "How's the shoulder?"

He bared his teeth at her as if he were about to hiss. "Oh, it's doing well, how nice of you to ask," he said dramatically. His voice still carried a faint Spanish accent.

"Yeah. What do you want?" she said, wanting to get to the point immediately. Her wrists started to hurt and she could feel the presence of the second man behind her. She was certain that his hands were wrapped around his gun again.

"Oh, I just wanted to chat a bit. A nice little chat between two old friends. But one is missing, isn't that the case? Where is your friend? Barton? Is he dead yet?"

"No."

"How unfortunate. Well. Of course I know that. How else would I be able to know that you were going to be here at this time? How else would I know that I had to stop at this corner to find you fixing that hideous motorcycle of yours?" he asked and laughed.

"After escaping that hellhole I gave myself a couple of months to relax. Surfing in New Zealand, you should try that. But after a couple of weeks I started to get bored. So I thought, hey, I think that it's a good time to see what my favorite nuisances are doing. It didn't take long for me to find out where you are. You two are famous now. You are two of America's greatest heroes. The _Avengers_ ," he said, enunciating the last word as if it were a delight to do so.

"Well, and then it was just as easy," he continued, gesturing widely with his well-tailored arms. "I spoke to a few of my old contacts and, well, I arranged this little meeting. You should keep your vehicles somewhere safer, you know. Anyone can manipulate them."

She glared at him. A couple of years ago she would have checked every transport she took, even if it were just rollerblades. She had become soft in America and stopped looking for attempts to take her life with a bomb or defect brakes fairly soon.

"So all you want is a chat?" she asked half-heartedly, trying to direct the topic off of her ignorance.

"Oh, yes. A chat. And then a little murder. You'll play a big role in it, yes; you'll be 50% of the murder."

She raised her eyebrow. "Why don't you do it here and now? I don't see anyone else."

Pizarro clicked with his tongue and slid his hands into the pockets of his suit. "Ah, not yet. The other half of the murder is still missing. You were the one that put the bullet through my shoulder but I will not forget the arrow in my foot."

Natasha remembered. Clint had been the one to make Pizarro fall when he was running from them. As the Peruvian was scrambling for his fallen weapon she shot him, making sure that he was immobilized.

"I assume that you'll also set him a trap?" she asked, inquiring whether she might have done the right choice and told Clint about her possible abduction, disrupting his normal routine, making it harder to catch him.

"I don't need to do that. I am nearly a hundred percent sure that you were using these valuable three seconds Claudio gave you to tell him your whereabouts and that I was standing here in all my beauty," Pizarro purred. The bulldog, his name apparently Claudio, smirked.

"The archer would love to be your hero, am I right? I don't have to move a finger. He will dance into the cobweb that you designed for me, Miss Romanoff. Thank you very much for that," he continued.

Natasha regretted having thrown her phone away. Now that she knew that she'd done a terrible mistake she wanted to correct it and warn Clint but it was too late now. Her phone was lying somewhere between tall grass a couple hundred feet behind her and there was no chance that she could escape Pizarro right here. Pizarro seemed to read the horror on her face because his slick grin grew even bigger. He opened his mouth to say something when Claudio raised a hand, his head turned in alert.

"Sir. I hear a vehicle approaching. We should leave," he grunted.

Pizarro's face fell. "Certainly. Thank you, Claudio. Vamos!" he shouted and hurried back to the car. Claudio had grabbed her by her arm and dragged her to the bench seat in the car. He pushed her in while the second man got into the driver's seat. Claudio climbed in behind her, his gun professionally trained at her the entire time. As soon as he closed the door behind him suit number two floored the gas as they sped away, distancing themselves from whatever car they heard approaching.

Natasha kept her eyes out the window, trying to remember the path they were taken. If she'd get a chance to escape she would know which way they went. After a while, however, she made the mistake to look into the outside mirror where she met the gaze of Pizarro. Quickly she looked into the interior of the car but Pizarro seemed to have understood.

"Knock her out!" he commanded.

Natasha opened her mouth to protest but before she could do so a blow on the left side of her head sent her into unconsciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three days, three chapters. I'm in a flow! Too bad that this chapter was also written at one in the morning, so I will have to go over the fine grammar the next time I remember. Anyways, I hope you like the story so far. Please review, nice comments keep me going. Enjoy~**

Wanda stared at him and he looked back at her, straight into her eyes. He looked at that woman who apparently he was very close with and yet he shared no memories with her. Nevertheless he seemed to have surfaced one of those old memories.

"She is in danger," he repeatedly, weakly, as if he was afraid that she didn't hear him the first time.

"Natasha is in danger? Are you sure?" she asked carefully.

"Yes," he urged and pointed back at her phone. "As soon as I saw her face I knew. I don't know why she is in danger, or, to be honest, who she is, but she is in danger."

Wanda fixed her eyes at the opposite wall, pondering about what he just said. "I mean, it is possible," she began. "I haven't heard of her in a couple of days. However, neither have I had contact with Steve or you until now. The hospital called me yesterday because I was listed as one of your contacts, apparently. I'm sure that Natasha is also listed as a contact and if they had reached her she would have walked whatever distance between you on her hands."

Clint smiled weakly at that thought. "Are we close?"

"You and Natasha?"

"Yeah."

"Yes, definitely. You've known her longer than me. I've heard that you two share quite some history," Wanda said with a small smile tugging at her lips.

Clint liked the thought of mattering to someone and he too had to smile. "How long do we two know each other?" he asked, curious of the past that had been robbed of him.

She swallowed and looked at her feet. "Well, we kind of were enemies at first. There was a slight… misunderstanding on my side. Steve kind of brought us together and we fought for my hometown. You were very heroic that day. You… You were running back to the city to get that kid from the rubbles when…" she stopped for a moment. Clint figured that it was hard for her to talk about that day. "The… Thing we were fighting wanted to shoot you. My brother saved you."

"Your brother?"

"He didn't make it."

"Oh." Clint bit his lip. He did not mean to make Wanda sad. She seemed to be very nice and they appeared to have forged a close bond, at least him and her in the life he did not know of.

"Wait," he suddenly said, his brows furrowed in confusion. "We fought for your hometown? And someone tried to shoot me? Are we soldiers in the US army or something? I didn't know that I'm a soldier. To be honest, I thought of myself more as an… I don't know. An accountant or something."

Wanda laughed and he was glad that he had distracted her. "You actually are a solder. Well, not really. You are a sniper. Sometimes you were a spy. I think the accurate word is agent. You worked for a secret agency, called S.H.I.E.L.D, until it fell apart. When we got to know each other you were an Avenger."

He tilted his head. "I'm an Avenger? I've heard of those!"

Wanda's face lit up. "That's a start! You know who they are, that's great."

Clint looked to his right where he could look outside through a window. Instead of looking out, however, he examined the reflection of his face in his mirror. It was only then that he realized how he looked. To be honest, he looked horrible. His eyes were bloodshot and he was pale, although he still had more color in his skin that the sheets he lay on had. A bandage was wrapped around his head and he could see another bandage showing around his chest. But he recognized his own face now. He recalled the face on several newscasts he seemed to have seen in his life. He recognized the way his hair stood up and he recognized those eyes.

"I'm Hawkeye," he whispered. "I'm Clint Barton."

Wanda nodded, relief showing on her face. "You seem to remember."

Clint was mesmerized by the fact that memories were coming back to him. Names.

"You are… Wanda Maximoff. You were mentioning a man earlier, Steve… Rogers? Captain America, is that right? And the woman who is in danger is Natasha Romanoff," he continued, still staring at his reflection. It was as if he fell into the other side of a mirror where everything was clearer.

"Yes, that's all correct," Wanda said with a smile. "What else can you remember?"

Clint shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "There is something. I can't grasp it though. It's like I am running my hands through water, I can't keep it in there."

"Oh," Wanda said with a hint of disappointment in her voice. Then there was another pause.

"My things!" Clint exclaimed all of a sudden and he whipped his head around to face Wanda. The pain in his head surfaced again but he chose to ignore it. "My things," he repeated. "Do you have them? What I came to hospital with. Maybe they will help me remember something important."

Wanda blinked, surprised. "Right, why didn't I think of that!" she said and stood up from the chair. On the table on the far side of the room sat a neatly folded pile of clothes with a few items stacked on them. She heaved the stack into her arms and carried it to his bed, setting the things on to it so that he could see them. He leaned forward and looked through the pile. It consisted of a black shirt and pants along with an equally black leather jacket. He dropped the shoes next to the bed and examined a smartphone. A crack ran through the screen. He tried to turn it on.

"Dead battery. Or it's broken," he said, disappointment permeating his tone.

"Ah, maybe I can help," Wanda said as she took the phone from his hands. She closed her eyes and wrapped her hands around the model. Clint flinched as a sort of red smoke curled around her fingers and seemed to drift inside the openings of the phone- the headphone jack, the microphone and the charging port. The screen of the phone flickered and the logo of the brand appeared on screen along with a loading bar.

"Wow," Clint gasped, amazed by her powers. If he hadn't remembered who Wanda was he might have fallen off the bed and broken a couple more bones than he already had.

"There," she said as she handed the phone back to him. "It should work now. Try it."

The screen went dark just to light up again. It appeared to ask Clint for a passcode.

"Oh, shoot. I can't remember a passcode," he said, starting to get frustrated by his lack of remembrance.

Wanda however just raised an eyebrow and she took the phone back. The screen asked her for a passcode as well. She typed in a combination of numbers that Clint recognized to be "12345". He inhaled in anticipation as the screen went dark.

"I don't think that's my-"

The screen lit up as the home tab appeared. Clint paused.

"Am I that predictable?" he asked.

"Yes," she said with a hint of pride on her face. "You're bad at remembering numbers."

He made a face but took the phone back into his hands. He opened the messaging app. At the very top he found two unread messages by Wanda, asking him where he was. Under that he found similar messages from Steve Rogers. The third person to have texted him however was Natasha Romanoff.

"She sent me a message," he whispered. He tapped on the screen to see the chat between the two. She had sent him only a couple of words just a week ago:

 _Clint. Trace my phone. Pizarro has me cornered. Black unmarked car. Help._

He read the message aloud so that Wanda was able to hear what she wrote as well. After he had finished there was another small pause as they both thought about what she had written.

"So she is in danger," she muttered. "When did she send this to you?"

He checked again. "A week ago. Around noon. Who is Pizarro?"

Wanda shrugged. "I don't know," she confessed. "But he must be someone from her past if she knew his name. She sent this message to you only, I think. That means that she was under time pressure." Another pause. "I think you know Pizarro. She doesn't send you a full name, just the surname. Sounds South American. Maybe he is someone you both encountered at your time at S.H.I.E.L.D? That would explain why I don't know him."

Clint didn't respond. He started to feel helpless again, which he hated. One of his apparently closest friends had asked him for help and he seemed to have failed. Natasha Romanoff had trusted him to help her and yet he was here, without her or his memory. If he only had the memories then he would know what had happened. If only he knew what had happened to him in the past week. Maybe he had tried to help her. Nevertheless he had failed at whatever he had attempted to do.

"How did you say I was admitted to hospital again?" he asked absently.

"You were thrown out of a plane. No, a helicopter I think. It was in the middle of the day on the beach. Tourists reported to have seen a helicopter approach the coastline and about a quarter mile before it the doors opened. A middle-aged man who was watching the horizon for dolphins had a pair of binoculars with him and he turned his attention to the helicopter. He said that he could see two men forcing you out of the vehicle and they pushed you out, about sixty feet over the surface. If it weren't for the lifeguards and their motorboats you would have drowned," she said, remembering the doctor telling her that bizarre story.

He digested what she had reported him. It was weird to know that you nearly lost your life if you can't remember anything from that event. He was glad that he was thrown out over water although he had to admit that the job seemed sloppy. If someone wanted him dead they would have shot him in the head and buried him somewhere or something like that. They would have at least dropped him somewhere other than close to a beach where everyone could see what was going on. Unless… Unless they wanted him to stay alive but out of the way for a while. It also explained his concussion and broken ribs. Even though he did not fall on ground the surface of water was able to turn into hard concrete if something or someone fell on it from a specific distance. His fall may have been cushioned but he still suffered some serious injuries.

"I'm pretty sure that my attempted murder has something to do with this Pizarro," he began. "He sounds important. I bet that he has a lot of grunts working for him to do the dirty work or something."

Wanda snorted. "Yeah, rich men tend to do that. I just googled him. He's a former businessman who was arrested for murder and fraud. It's all over the news- He escaped from prison just a while ago. Maybe you and Natasha had something to do with the arrest and now he wants revenge."

"Huh," Clint said. "No wonder that he wants revenge. She shot him in the shoulder and I sent an arrow into his foot. He sure was angry when they dropped him in-"

Clint stopped talking. Another memory had come back to him. He now knew who they were talking about. Dario Pizarro. He recalled a rainy night. A furious car chase. He was there and so was Natasha. He remembered watching a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D agents dragging Pizarro away into a car, slamming the doors shut behind him. He remembered him hugging Natasha and he remembered him telling her that they'd gotten rid of him forever.

Wanda grinned. "Your memories are coming back, Clint."


End file.
